Going Down to the Wasteland
by RABBADIDIDOODA
Summary: Waking up in the wasteland of the world wasn't Stan's intention. Now he's on a mission to find out out just what the hell is going on. This should be fun...
1. Chapter 1

**Going down to the wasteland**

Stan crawled back to consciousness, and the first thing he knew was that his head hurt like a motherfucker and he needed to sneeze.

He forced his eyes open and squinted, trying to adjust to the sun's glare.

"What the hell...?"

Trying to massage his headache away, he hauled himself to his feet. The raven-haired teen checked himself over on instinct, only to discover that he was wearing a blue and yellow jumpsuit with brown boots. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't place why.

"What the fuck am I wearing?"

The strange device on his left wrist stood out more than his outfit. It looked like someone had fused a watch with a television, and he could make out the faded word 'Pip-Boy' engraved beside its small screen. He tapped the dusty display and turned the nob on its side, curious whether the gadget was even working. The screen flashed to neon-green life.

"Well that's new," he muttered to himself, "I hope this thing can tell me what happened and why I'm here."

He messed with its controls more, flicking between two of the Pip-Boy's screens—a blank map and a small list of radio stations, and then directed a frustrated growl at it. "Well that's useful. I don't know where I am but at least I have music!"

Stan scanned his surroundings. The ground was dry and dusty with patches of dead grass and stretched on for miles. Trees freckled the landscape, dark and barren of leaves. The silhouette of a small, oddly shaped building in the distance caught his attention, with a winding, dirt road leading to it.

Better than nothing.

"I hope there's someone there that can help me." He mumbled, and started on his way.

Stan arrived at his destination quicker than he expected. It was a retro-themed diner, a large sign on the roof, attached to a large red rocket declaring 'Red Rocket Diner'. On the door was a small cardboard sign that said 'formerly known as Shakey's Diner'.

"Hello! Is anyone here?!"

No reply. Stan knew the place was abandoned and went in, eager to get out of the dry heat. Inside, the air was dusty but considerably cooler, and he made a beeline for the kitchen hoping to find water. The first fridge he raided had a full bottle and he snatched it up, practically tearing the cap off.

A soft growl behind him nearly caused him to inhale the water.

He turned around slowly, expecting a wolf or a Doberman or some other vicious thing that wanted his throat.

The growler was a small, light and dark brown dog— a crossbreed stray of staffy and something else that appeared more sad than angry.

Luckily, for the mutt, the human who he was growling at was an animal lover.

"Are you thirsty boy? Is that it?" Stan asked. The dog's eyes flicked between him and the bottle as if in answer.

"Just give me a second." He grabbed a nearby bowl from the counter, emptied the rest of the water into it and set it down in front of him, aware that the dog was still growling and his eyes were studying the teen warily.

"Here you go, boy."

The mutt studied him for a moment more, then stopped growling and plunged his face into the bowl with perked ears and a wagging tail, lapping up the water in minutes. He looked up at Stan, tongue lolling out of his open mouth in a goofy doggy-grin.

"See I'm not that bad." Stan told him. He crouched down to pet the content dog and the wagging tail sped up. Only then did Stan notice the blue studded collar he was wearing.

"You don't seem to have a tag. I'm going to call you... Sparky!"

The dog seemed to grin again and Stan smiled back, petting his new friend and relieved to have company. Sparky jumped up and licked Stan's face, then skittered to the door, turned and barked twice.

"You want me to follow you?" Stan asked. "Alright."

The mutt charged out of the diner and the two of them headed back onto the road, going east.

"I hope you know where you're going." Stan said to Sparky as they walked down the road.

Stan and Sparky walked for what felt like hours but soon arrived on top of a hill with a wooden sign next to the road. The sign had 'South Park' painted on it in bold letters.

He gave the partially ruined town an apprehensive glance.

"God, I hope this place has people."

Stan followed Sparky around the town, taking in the sights of all the damaged shops and houses. Gunfire cracked through the ghost town's silence and Stan jolted.

"Okay, Sparky, I think we should get going." He whispered. The sound of a gunshot was never a sign that the one who had caused it was friendly.

A hot breeze flashed past his right ear.

"Jesus Christ!"

A bullet hit the ground in front of him, leaving a dent in the road. Sparky barked angrily as Stan turned to see a group of people holding guns dressed in dirty clothes covered in pieces of armour made from scrap.

"Dude, what the fuck?!"

He whirled around and bolted. Sparky ran ahead and the only thing Stan could do was follow him and resist the urge to check if the group of hostiles had given chase. Soon his lungs were burning, his muscles were screaming at him, and worse still, the shouts and war-cries of his pursuers drew closer…

"Hey!"

Like divine intervention, someone called to him. He could make out a figure flailing at him from the upper window of the nearby boarded up elementary school.

"Quick, dude, get in here!"

Heavy doors dragged open, and Stan didn't need to be told twice. The doors slammed behind Stan and Sparky as soon as they were inside, and he leaned over and tried to get his lungs to obey him again. "Th-thanks."

"No problem," a male voice said from behind him. He turned to see two male teens that looked to be the same age as him.

"My name is Butters." The boy who had spoken had short, blond hair wearing a teal T-shirt covered with a torn, brown leather jacket, dark green pants and dirty sneakers.

"This is Craig." he continued, pointing to the boy on the right who was wearing a tattered, dark blue chullo hat with a yellow puff ball on top, dark blue long sleeved shirt, pants, boots and fingerless gloves. He responded with flipping off Stan with no facial expression.

"That's not very nice, Craig," Butters scolded. He twitched a crooked smile back at Stan and fiddled with his hands, as if embarrassed for Craig's display. "S-sorry bout that, Craig gives everyone the finger. I-it's kinda like a reflex... I think."

"Ah ha..." Stan wasn't sure what else to say.

"Craig, what have I told you about doing that to new people?"

Stan turned toward the new voice to see another teen. This boy wore a tilted cowboy hat with a green strap wrapped around the top, strands of long, curly red hair peeking out from the brim. He wore a long, light brown leather coat, and an orange and yellow vest underneath with a green scarf tucked into it. A belt with useful-looking pouches attached to it was fastened around his waist and held up his black pants. Brown boots peeked out from the pant legs.

Craig responded by flipping off the red-haired man who returned the gesture.

"My name is Kyle," the boy said, offering his hand in greeting.

"Oh, my name is Stan and this is Sparky." Stan shook Kyle's hand, then looked at Sparky sitting by his side.

"Who the hell were those guys?" Stan asked Kyle.

"Those were Raiders. They have been attacking our base for the past week." Kyle answered.

"Why?" Stan asked.

"They most likely want our supplies or base." Kyle said with a sigh. "What are you doing above ground anyway?"

"Why would I be underground?'

"Because you're wearing a vault suit and Pipboy so you must be from one of the vaults."

Stan raised a brow. "A vault?"

"How do you not know what a vault is?" Kyle replied, confused. "They're underground bomb shelters designed by a company called Vault-Tec to protect people from the bombs 200 years ago."

"He doesn't have a number on his back." Craig pointed out to Kyle.

"That's just weird. If you're not from a vault then where are you from?" Kyle continued asking questions.

Stan shrugged. "I don't know that part either. All I know was that I woke up in the middle of nowhere with a headache and dressed like this. I only really remember my name and a few random, useless things. Everything else is hazy."

"Wow. That must suck, dude." Kyle said. His tone was surprised and a little sympathetic.

"It's okay. You're with friends now." Butters said, gently patting Stan on the back. Stan looked at the blond, confused.

"You should meet the rest of our team." Kyle said. He led Stan into a nearby, rundown classroom, leaving Butters and Craig to guard the front door.

"Stan, this is Tweek and Token." He gestured the last two teens as he introduced them.

Stan's immediate impression was that someone had replaced Tweek's internal organs with a motor boat engine. He sat in the corner of the room, twitching and jittering and tugging at his messy, blond hair. The moss-green T-shirt he wore wasn't buttoned up right. He wore one fingerless, leather glove on his right hand, brown pants and mismatched sneakers. Stan would have asked where the other glove was, but he had a feeling the poor guy wouldn't even be able to handle the simplest of questions.

Token was harder to read. He was African-American, had short, dark brown hair and wore a purple jacket with a yellow, capital T on the front, black pants and dirty, red sneakers.

He shot Stan a smile and casual wave. "Hey there."

"Hey." Stan replied waving back.

"H-hi! Gah!" Tweek stuttered, looking at Stan like he would've eaten him if he hadn't followed Token's lead.

"Um, hi." Stan replied. He directed an inquisitive glance at Kyle, who shrugged.

"Yeah. Tweek has a bit of an anxiety problem. I think it has something to do with all the Nuka Cola he's been drinking."

"How long have you been here?" Stan asked him.

"About ten days. We first came here, thinking we might be able to set up a shelter for ourselves and others who need it, but then the Raiders showed up. We tried to sneak out at night but there was a Streisand Death-claw that randomly comes out at night."

"A what?"

"Death-claws are huge lizards that can easily hold a grown man in one hand." Kyle explained. "They've got horns, big claws and thick skin. They're crazy strong and vicious. The Streisand one is easy to spot. It's bigger than a normal Death-claw and has long, blond, greasy hair."

Stan gawped at him. "Wait wait wait, you're telling me that there a like mini Godzilla's running around?"

Kyle shrugged. "Pretty much."

"What the fuck, dude?" Stan commented.

"Yeah, it's pretty messed up," Token added, "but that's what radiation does to animals. We don't have much ammo to fight it or the raiders so we're stuck here".

"If you managed to escape all of this crap then where would you go?" Stan asked.

"I was thinking we could go to this cul-de-sac I heard of that's on the edge of town. Apparently it used to be a raider camp so it already has walls built around it. If we could get there we could add some more defences to it and make it our home" Kyle answered.

"Ngh I-I wish we were there already!" Tweek chimed in from the corner of the room.

"What weapons do you guys have?" Stan asked.

"Craig has a shotgun that has four bullets left, Tweek has a pipe pistol with eight bullets, Butters has a metal baseball bat and Token has a rifle with three bullets." Kyle answered.

"What about you?" Stan asked Kyle raising an eyebrow.

Kyle sighed. "I have a flame thrower but it's almost out of fuel so if I use it it's not gonna last long"

"Ok that's pretty badass. Why doesn't Butters have a gun?" Stan asked.

"He... he's not exactly the best shot." Token sighed.

"That's putting it mildly." Kyle commented.

"OH GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE!" Tweek screamed, tugging at his hair.

"For the last time Tweek we aren't going to die!" Kyle snapped back.

"We just need a plan." Token added.

Stan held his chin, looking at the ground, thinking. And grinned. "I think I know what we can do."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Ambushing a raider camp sounded simple enough in explanation. Doing it was a different story entirely.

Craig wasn't worried. He was the one with the shotgun.

Ignoring that Stan seemed the type to go looking for trouble like some kind of stupid action hero, Craig had to admit —though never aloud— that the newcomer was a decent strategist. With the map of the ruined town laid out in front of him, the guy devised a plan so easily that it appeared as though he had been with the group the whole time. He hadn't even been in the town for half a day.

Although, _now..._

"Move it!"

Why the hell did Stan think teaming him up with Butters was a good idea?

The Raiders' wall fortress was in sight, a looming silhouette as the last slivers of dusty twilight faded. And Butters had stopped in the middle of the road. Again.

At the sound of Craig's hissed order, the blonde scurried over to him, wringing his hands and scanning the area on shuffled feet.

"Are you sure about this, Craig?"

He shrugged and continued on, Butters plodding along behind him. "We don't exactly have a _choice_. Now hurry up before we run into that stupid lizard."

"Do you think these 'shields' will hold up?" Butters asked, shifting the steel-covered classroom desk lid he carried on his back.

Craig sighed as they approached the large door. "It's better than nothing."

He swallowed hard, then raised a fist and knocked three times.

"Who's there?!" A venomous, female voice called out from above the wooden wall.

"We're two travellers looking to join your group!" Craig announced.

"We don't need any _turds_ in here!"

The speaker's head appeared over the wall and a girl with lank, brunette hair and complicated-looking braces glared down at the two boys.

"D-did she just call us turds?" Butters mumbled.

Craig bit back the urge to snark at him. And people wondered why he wanted the simple, boring life. Because it didn't involve elaborate plans and gambling with peoples' lives. And idiots asking obvious questions.

"Please, we travelled all this way!" Craig pleaded, trying to force as much desperation into his tone to play the sympathy card. He thought he did a decent job. Maybe they wouldn't need to make this any more complicated than it needed to be—

"Get outta here, tuuurrrdds!"

—or not.

"Looks like we have to go with plan B," Craig said with a sigh. "Get ready to run, Butters."

He raised his shotgun and blasted a hole through the wooden door.

The response was immediate.

"What the fuck?!"

"Get those turds!"

The Raiders fumbled for their guns. With his mind smirking and his face deadpan, Craig shot first— one finger, direct hit.

None spared.

The unlikely team turned and bolted, and the sound of bullets pinging off the makeshift shields eased Butters' previous doubts.

* * *

Stan had put him on the roof on purpose; Tweek was sure of it.

He sat curled and quivering at his post, his mind flipping through the worst-case scenarios in alphabetical order.

A chaotic haze had obscured the last half hour from the moment the newcomer used 'Tweek' and 'rooftop' in the same sentence. He didn't recall what had him panicking— being preoccupied with worrying about what could and what would happen and the agonising wait for Butters' signal.

Before they left the safety of the school building, Craig eased his pinball nerves in that unique way only best friends could, and made sure that Sparky stayed with him on the rooftop as the others split off into their groups.

The dog was friendly enough, but was probably in the first stages of rabies. Or had another form of disease that would kill a human in the most horrible of ways. Or at least had fleas.

It was getting dark. Even to the bravest heart, night time in the Wasteland brought an eerie stillness with it; silent besides the odd scratch and scuffle of unseen things with claws and sharp teeth and spindly legs, watching his every move and waiting for their chance to get him—!

Sparky chose that inopportune moment to press his wet nose against Tweek's arm.

Both hands shot up to clamp over his mouth quicker than he opened it, muffling the hysterical yelp that threatened to escape and alert something to his presence.

Tweek liked dogs. But that didn't mean they could be trusted.

Grinning, appearing as if he was proud of himself for scaring the ever-loving shit out of him, Sparky made himself comfortable beside Tweek, tail thumping against the concrete. With the next involuntary twitch, it occurred to him that maybe it was safe enough to take his hands away… in case something flew up his nose and he suffocated.

He almost punched himself in the mouth when distant gunshots thundered.

Tweek sprang to his feet in an accurate impression of a meerkat and Sparky followed, ears perked.

Finally…

"—eezohjeezohjeezohjeezohambu— I mean, hammertime!"

Butters' shrill cry shattered the silence as he came tearing around the corner, just ahead of Craig, who followed at a less frantic pace.

"Hammertime" was code for 'shit is about to go down' and something just seemed...nostalgic about whenever they used it. At least he didn't have to remember it. It would have been way too much pressure otherwise.

He launched himself at the large metal bin.

The plan had been to dump the rocks contained within on top of the pursuing Raiders. In Tweek's haste, a few of the unluckier bandits received a steel container to the head as a bonus.

Craig would have, too, if the first sign of the mini-avalanche hadn't motivated him to run like hell.

A brief silence told him that the manic gears in his best friend's head were revving at full throttle.

Four…three…two…one—

"Oh Jesus what if I killed them?!"

Without Tweek actually checking, the abandoned house appeared to have its own voice.

"We're both fine, Tweek!" Craig called over his shoulder.

The house shrieked a "Gaah!" back at him, which, in Tweekish, probably meant "oh, that's good to know. Thank you for not dying."

When the first tremors pulsed under his feet, Butters ducked into the ruins of the nearest building and Craig followed. Panting, they leaned against the wall that appeared the most solid, only now allowing themselves a moment's rest.

Seconds later, disorientated Raiders and those out in the open clapped their hands over their ears as a deafening screech-roar split the silence.

Kyle darted out from the opposite street corner of where Craig and Butters had fled, towards the still-recovering Raiders. A hulking, reptilian nightmare followed at an alarming pace, sweeping aside whatever lay in its path. Its great beak of a nose and mop of greasy blonde hair classified it as the horror Kyle talked about before— the Streisand deathclaw.

The group of bandits leapt into action, rushing to gather their guns and opening fire on the new threat. The creature's tough hide repelled the barrage of bullets, and it let out another piercing roar as it shredded the first of its victims.

With this distraction, Kyle could run past to the next building, to reach the shaking ball of blonde teenager who clung to its rooftop.

Apparently Tweek decided that the roof was definitely the best place to be and was not. Going to. Move!

It took convincing and a lot of patience on Kyle's part to get the poor kid to move. And ignore the Streisand deathclaw tearing the Raiders apart. Sparky helped. A little.

They took refuge near the school, waiting for Stan and Token to make their escape from within so the five could converge as a group to meet up with Craig and Butters. Safety in numbers, and all that.

Stan and Token made their appearance once the coast was clear, and Sparky tore out from their cover to catch up with Stan. Tweek and Kyle didn't hesitate to follow— the sooner they were out of the warzone, the better.

Tweek had scurried ahead, propelled by adrenaline and anxiety and whatever was in the three bottles of Nuka cola he had downed just before they set out.

Pain whipcracked suddenly across the back of his right shin. Both legs tangled beneath him and when he hit the ground, the impact pushed the air from his lungs before he got the chance to cry out.

Gasping and trembling, Tweek pushed hard on his elbows, trying to get back on his feet because there was a fucking deathclaw just meters away and—

"Aaargh!"

The moment he tried to put weight on his right leg, the pain flared again, driving away his frantic thoughts. On impulse, he grabbed at it, because if it was a muscle cramp he had to get rid of it as soon as possible.

His hand met with a warm wetness. His palm came away red.

Tweek fumbled for his pipe pistol only to realise it wasn't there and he wouldn't be able to move fast enough to get away if—!

The Streisand deathclaw turned its misty eyes on him.

A snakelike tongue darted out to flick across its slavering mouth and the myriad protrusions of fangs, as it followed the aroma of new blood in the air. Prey was always best when it was fresh and young.

It scraped its claws together with the sound of an unsheathing katana, and bared its teeth at him in a horrific parody of a grin.

 _Hello, fresh, writhing dessert,_ that grin seemed to say.

The chaotic cloud filled Tweek's mind once again.

"Hey ugly!"

Sudden heat seared the deathclaw's vision. With a low growl, it switched its target— the nuisance standing in front of its prey.

"That's right! Over here, you big bitch!" Kyle yelled, flamethrower poised.

The commotion caught Stan and Token's attention and, as Kyle turned the deathclaw around and led it backwards with accompanying fire bursts, Token nodded to his accomplice.

"Now's our chance."

They snuck past and ran to Tweek's side.

* * *

If things had gone the way they were supposed to, for once, Craig would have been _soo_... something. Relieved? Surprised?

Well, 'happy' was pushing it a little far right now. Once they established their own settlement and the day's excitement was whatever passed for normal teenage amusement, _then_ he would be _soo_ happy.

But no; with all the sudden drama unfolding— which he was content to stay out of, thank you very much— someone may as well have thrown him into the middle of a video game. Or a bad movie.

Butters' commentary wasn't much help, either.

"Oh, boy! Kyle's got the flamethrower out!"

"It's nearly dark, Butters."

"I c'n see the fire though. Looks real pretty..."

Something about his tone wasn't sitting right with Craig. "And you wanted to know the other reason you got a baseball bat."

Butters either ignored him, or didn't hear the comment.

"Whaddaya think the holdup is?" He asked. "Maybe we should go check."

He had started up his usual hand-wringing and shuffle habit— something he did whenever he was nervous or impatient.

Craig had been thinking the same thing, but out of annoyed impatience. There wasn't any need to drag this out longer than necessary.

And maybe he had wondered once or twice about how Tweek was doing; they were practically brothers. Well, brothers in the sense of adopted, and adopted in the sense of Tweek's useless parents would have sold him into slavery if Craig hadn't intervened.

Craig sighed, adjusted his chullo, then with some reluctance stood and re-holstered his shotgun.

"C'mon, then."

He took off at a steady jog, with Butters keeping up easily, and it wasn't much of a run before they reached the others.

Craig could have kicked himself for not being able to answer Butters' question before.

What was the holdup? Tweek. Or, Tweek's panic attack. Craig guessed it had something to do with why Kyle was fending off the deathclaw.

If the idea wasn't idiotic and reckless, Craig would have gone after it and shot it in the face himself. And then flipped it off. With both hands.

He settled for throwing up a middle-finger salute in its general direction before something in his mind slammed the 'auto damage-control' button.

He knelt, laying his shotgun aside.

"What happened."

He wasn't asking for an answer; he was demanding it.

"Tweek got hit." Stan replied. "His leg. I think—"

What Stan thought didn't matter, and Craig shooed him aside with a flick of his hand.

"You guys keep an eye out," he told them. "I've got this."

Stan and Token didn't argue.

"Tweek."

No answer. When the kid wasn't even babbling on about the usual irrationalities, Craig knew things were bad.

Tweek's shuddering could have registered on the Richter scale; his attempts to breathe rapid and clumsy. He was trying to curl into himself despite his injured leg, both hands buried in his hair and yanking, tearing—

Craig grabbed both his wrists, regretting the instinctive action a second later as the blonde thrashed out blindly and hit him in the shoulder.

"Don't do that. It's just me."

Tweek's head snapped up. Even in the dark, his eyes were huge, and he was still gasping for air, trying to see everything at the same time.

Craig made eye contact and held it.

"Listen," he said, drawing each word out carefully. "Try to focus, okay?"

'Try' was the key— the magic word for calming an otherwise untameable frenzy.

Finally, Tweek blinked. Drew a few strained breaths and held them for a moment, and on every exhale, he seemed to come back to reality just a little bit more.

 _"GAH ogod it nearly—"_

"It _didn't_ ," Craig interrupted. "And it's not going to."

The note of confidence in the older boy's voice was subtle enough that only Tweek detected it, and when Craig went for the extended leg to inspect the injury, he didn't fight.

Craig retrieved the pocket knife he kept tucked into his boot and cut off half of Tweek's pant leg to get to the wound.

"This is gonna hurt, Tweekers," he said. "Hang in there."

He wadded up the material and pressed against the wound to stop the bleeding, then tore off the left sleeve of his t-shirt and tied it around Tweek's leg to keep the makeshift dressing in place. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do for now.

Tweek had done well to hold back voicing his obvious discomfort, and the adrenaline had helped numb the pain, but when Craig pulled the knot taut, he grabbed his best friend's wrist, unable to help letting out a whimper.

"H-hurts..."

"I bet."

Craig stayed beside his best friend, deciding that he would not move until this whole thing was over.

"Hurry up, you guys!" Kyle called out. Keeping the beast's attention was easy enough; staying a good distance ahead was harder.

His flamethrower sputtered out a few last tiny flames, and then died.

"Oh _shit._ I'm all out!"

"Jesus _Christ…_ " Stan muttered. He noticed the unmistakeable shape of a pistol lying nearby and snatched it up as he ran towards Kyle, firing off a few shots at the deathclaw as a distraction.

The monster caught sight of him and whirled, slamming him into the wall of a nearby building with a swish of its tail.

Pain pulsed through his body. In the distance, he was sure that Kyle was calling his name, but everything was hazy and his lungs wouldn't cooperate to respond.

The deathclaw crept towards Stan. Kyle wanted to go to his new friend's aid, but without a working weapon, it was suicide.

For the third time that night, something prevented the beast getting its next meal— Butters hit it in the back of the head with a piece of rubble.

"Leave him alone you-you poo-head!"

He realised his mistake seconds later as the deathclaw turned on him.

"Ohh, _hamburgers..._ "

Stan tried to shake off his disorientation long enough to throw the pistol over. "Butters, here!"

His legs trembled as he picked up the gun, but he hesitated. "I-I shouldn't. This's Tweek's an'—"

 _"Just use it, Butters!"_

The monster was practically on him, lowering its head to meet his gaze. Shaking, Butters raised the pistol.

"Please don't hurt me, Ms Claw," he pleaded.

The Streisand claw grinned and opened its mouth to roar in his face.

The deathclaw's breath reminded Butters of a slice of mystery meat he had found once and wanted to ration. Except he'd had to get a second opinion on it because he wasn't sure if it smelled right or not. Kyle had made it clear to throw that shit _out._

"Well, o-okay, then. You made me do this."

Though his heart was trying to leap out through his mouth, he swallowed hard, clenched his eyes shut and squeezed the trigger.

A banshee howl exploded in Butters' ears, and, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, he dared to open his eyes. The deathclaw was pawing at its face, lurching around and screeching. Finally, it stumbled into the alleyways between the buildings, and its screams faded into distant echoes.

Stan burst out laughing.

Kyle cheered. "Way to go, Butters! You got it!"

He was trying to help Stan up, which was hard since the fits of laughter threatened to throw off his footing.

Butters blinked, confused, and after a moment, found his voice. "I-I did?"

"Your bullet went up its nose!" Stan said, still chuckling. Kyle wondered privately if he was concussed.

"No freakin' way." Token commented. He was having trouble believing what he had just witnessed.

"I know," Craig added. He hoisted Tweek up onto his back, knowing that carrying him was better than trying to get him to walk with a bullet in his leg.

"It-it's not coming back, is it?" Tweek peeked at them over Craig's shoulder, and Stan couldn't help picturing a baby koala clinging to its mother.

Thankfully, Craig couldn't read his mind.

"God, I hope not," Stan said. He made his way over to them, his arm over Kyle's shoulder for support.

Kyle lifted the now useless flamethrower off his shoulders and let it drop into the dust. With all the makeshift weapons around already and fuel being scarce, itwas better just to leave it behind.

"We should get to that cul-de-sac as soon as possible."

"No argument here." Token agreed.

"Come on. It's about half an hour's walk from here." Kyle said. He gestured down the street in their intended direction- opposite from where the Streisand deathclaw had fled.

"It better be as good as you say it is." Craig muttered.

"I'm sure it w-will be a-as long as w-we stick together." Tweek said, and twitched a crooked smile.

Everyone had to repress a shocked gasp— Tweek had said something positive instead of pitching a panicked 'what-if?'.

The Wasteland would freeze over, next.

Kyle returned the wild-haired blonde's gesture. "Well said, Tweek."

The smile spread to Stan. "Well, let's get this shit-show on the road."

Their new home awaited. And Stan thought that his new friends definitely put the 'fun' back into dysfunctional.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** hope you enjoyed reading this story. All reviews are appreciated. The more reviews the more I want to continue writing this._

 _ **Extra note:** Hi! I'm the editor…thingy. Just thought I'd butt in and say this is a collab project! YAAAY! (Hooray for caffeine!)_

 _ **Author:**_ _my editor is a bit of a worry…_


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